Snapshots
by Ghost Rider of the Aragon
Summary: One-shots, mostly Movie-verse, might dip into the books. I was trying to explore different character's motives and thoughts, and this was the result. More possibly coming soon. I own nothing.
1. So Fair

Eowyn stood on the platform, trying to imagine where her brother would be by now. Her white dress fluttered in the wind and her golden hair whipped about her face. A tear made its way down her cheek. Eomer had done everything possible to reveal Grima's treachery, but even the guards were on the evil man's side. Eomer was banished, and if he ever returned, he would be killed. Grima had seen to that. Now that Theodred was dead there was no trustworthy person to talk to, except for Hama and Gamling, the door wardens, but they only saw her as a young girl who knew nothing of politics or war. A sob rose in her throat as she thought of the still, pale form of her cousin lying on the low bed in that cold room. The sob escaped with a low moan when she remembered how her uncle had shown no reaction to the news that his son was dead. She walked back inside struggling to maintain her composure, but utterly failing. She gently opened the door and knelt next to her cousin's body, stroking his hands and fervently wishing for him to suddenly sit up and tell her everything would be fine. She heard the footsteps coming down the hall following her and she shuddered. Grima.


	2. Reflections on Death

Legolas watched as Aragorn bent over Boromir. Even from thirty feet away, the elf could see the shafts of the black arrows sticking through the man's leather jerkin. He inwardly swore. Hadn't the loss of Gandalf been enough? How could Aragorn be so at peace with this? What was going to happen to the fellowship? Merry and Pippin were gone, and who knew where Frodo and Sam had got to? As he stepped nearer, he heard the dying man's last words.

"I would have followed you, my brother, my captain…my King…" So he was swearing loyalty at the last. Legolas closed his eyes, hoping that he would never have to witness death so closely again. It made every effort meaningless. But somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that there would be much more in the days to come.


	3. Ai! Aniron Undomiel!

Aragorn walked behind the rest of the fellowship. He had rested up before the beginning of the journey, but there was no explanation for the tiredness that he felt now. A pang of guilt hit him as he remembered what he had said to Arwen before he left.

_I am mortal, you are elf-kind. It was a dream, Arwen, nothing more._

_I don't believe you._

_ This belongs to you._

_It was a gift. Keep it._

The words kept playing over in his mind. The look she had given him made him want to run back to Rivendell and beg for her forgiveness. Elrond was right, though. To see one so beautiful face death in the bitter end would be hard indeed. But Arwen was willing to give up her immortality for him, and he would do his best to be worthy of her love. Aragorn noticed that he was falling behind again. He sped up his gait and caught up with Sam and Bill the pony.

Later that night when they set up camp, Aragorn sat well away from the others. He was smoking his pipe, and still thinking of Arwen. He glanced around startled when he felt someone sit down next to him. He glanced down to see Frodo. The hobbit looked up at him, concerned.

"What is it, Frodo?" he asked quietly.

"Something's bothering you."

"Yes, but what can you do about it?" The hobbit gave him a canny look.

"I can listen. It's about the Lady Evenstar, is it not?"

"How do you know about that?" Aragorn asked. Frodo looked sheepish.

"I saw the two of you in the garden on the bridge. And I heard you talking."

"But we were speaking Elvish. I thought you only spoke Westron." Frodo grinned.

"You forget that Bilbo taught me both Quenya and Sindarin. And when you switched over to Westron, that made it all the easier." Aragorn smiled.

"I should not have underestimated you, Frodo. And yes, the Lady Evenstar is troubling my thoughts."

"You want to talk about it?" Aragorn's smile faded.

"No."


	4. To Imladris

Boromir tied his horse's reins to a tree. Only one more day until he reached Imladris. He felt the weight of his responsibility settle on his heart like a thick fog. His thoughts turned to home. His father was getting old, and even though he wished to deny it, Boromir knew that Denethor was beginning to slowly lose his grip on what was truth and what wasn't. He knew that this quest to claim the One Ring for Gondor was folly, whether his father had ordered it or not. At that moment, he almost decided to turn back around. But then he thought of how this thing could help Gondor, maybe even restore it to its former glory.

He recalled triumphant returns to the WhiteCity, with the people lining the streets cheering, the women throwing flowers, and the children singing. The music of the trumpets stirred his blood like nothing else could. Then he remembered how his father had praised him for the retaking of Osgiliath, and blamed Faramir for losing it in the first place. He felt that the treatment his brother had received was grossly unfair. He knew that his brother was as good a warrior as he. Their father would see that someday. He heaved a sigh, and turned back to lighting his campfire. He watched as the sun sank behind the western hills, and night came upon his camp. After eating his meager dinner, he spread out his bedroll and fell asleep, dreaming of home.


End file.
